Two years ago, before my trip back to Taiwan, my dad gave me my first digital camera. By unfortunate circumstances, the timing of this gift has had a profound effect on me. One week prior to my arrival, Typhoon Morakot had descended upon the tiny island, launching a domino-effect of devastation that shook the very core of Taiwan's infrastructure. I remember thinking about how wonderful it would be to take family portraits in Kaohsiung, a city with a breathtaking view of the ocean from atop its coastal mountains. But from the minute I landed, I could sense the fear that had gripped the community and the destruction that had ravished the lands. Even in the aftermath of the storm, people were afraid to leave their homes or divert their eyes from the news. Throughout my trip, I saw everything from shipwrecks to destroyed homes and amputees to mudslides. Everyday, the death count rose. I had never before been exposed to such a travesty, and the emotions I experienced seemed to waver between feeling terrified, sad, and helpless. The whole trip was so eye-opening, that something inside me felt compelled to share exactly what I had seen with my friends and community. I decided to take advantage of the gift I had been given and, for the rest of my stay in Taiwan, I never stopped taking photos.
When I came back to the States, photography had evolved from a hobby into something more. It had begun to mean something to me and define me, as I had realized it was my way to spread awareness. Through my photographs, I hoped I could start the necessary discussions that could bring about change. It wasn't long after my return, at the start of my sophomore year, that I found myself working late nights as a photojournalist for the campus newspaper. Motivated by my experience in Taiwan, I wanted to use photojournalism as a way to help those around me see what I saw. I wanted to capture people's emotions, their joys and even their sufferings, as objectively as possible. Framing the camera and seeing the world through my lenses, I developed a new perspective on life, as well as my photography. I found myself considering the bigger picture, taking into account all of the differences in opinions surrounding a subject, before I clicked the shutter button. I came to realize that it was with that click, a story-telling photograph would be born. It would be a snapshot of reality and, through the newspaper twice a week, 8,000 people would see these photographs and realize what had truly transpired.
At first this all seemed wonderful, but as I started covering more difficult topics, such as gay rights and rape education, I found myself growing more and more frustrated. Last year, after a special series concerning the Concerned About Rape Education (C.A.R.E.) week, two girls who had spoken about their experiences wrote me a letter. In the letter, they thanked me excessively for taking the time to help them. As I continued to capture similar images for print, I began wondering if I was truly doing enough to deserve such thanks. I recall the tears streaming down their faces as they courageously continued their stories. When I look back at the photographs I took, I can see their sadness, as if their sentiments were frozen in time. In my efforts to send a clear message, I had preserved the emotion of their speech. But in all my considerations to composition and exposure, I could not change their past, I could not ease their suffering, I could not help these young women and nor could I help all of the vulnerable, typhoon victims.
It was during these years working for the newspaper that I realized I have a greater goal. I have grown tired of being a messenger; I want to get to the root of problems and actually solve them. I do not want to limit the joy I find in helping others to just spreading awareness and starting conversations. As I found myself working at my local hospital, I was deeply moved to see how doctors had the capabilities to do exactly what I had truly desired--easing pain and suffering directly. These were the people who actually saved lives in Taiwan, as I stood on the sidelines taking my photos. They were also the very same people who prescribed a path of recovery to those poor, defenseless girls. When I had taken these victims' photographs, it was as if their sadness was preserved without a glimmer of hope. And in those photos, time stood still; no amount of photo editing could have changed the facts. But in the hospital, I saw firsthand the transformative power of medicine. I witnessed doctors, with true confidence and authority, impact their patients' lives for the better. I watched in awe as my hospital celebrated its first successful artificial heart transplant, knowing this was what I wanted to be a part of. Where my photos have failed to change reality and directly impact lives, medicine can succeed as the path to realizing my dreams.
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